Where Many Were
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: What if Corporal Mitchell had been killed or infected when the infected overran Major Henry West's 42nd Mechanised Brigade at Manchester, and someone much more like Sergeant Farrell had survived in his place?
1. Chapter 1- The Blockade

**Chapter I- The Blockade**

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**A/N: I started writing this story in the summer of 2012, based off a thought of "what if". What if Corporal Mitchell had been killed or infected when the infected overran Major Henry West's 42****nd**** Mechanised Brigade at Manchester, and someone much more like Sergeant Farrell had survived in his place?**

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_Where many were, how few remain, of old familiar things_

_Seeing these, to mind again, the lost and absent brings…_

_-Abraham Lincoln_

They moved swiftly, silently, snapping no twig and brushing no leaf that would alert the three civilians recently arrived at the blockade to their presence. Not an inch of skin could be seen- the extra clothes and masks they wore over their uniforms had been designed to protect Her Majesty's soldiers against gas attacks, but quick thinking by certain commanders- most of them now dead or mad- had found the heavy suits were the best existing protection against Britain's latest enemy. Through twin portholes in the masks they watched, blending in perfectly with the trees and bushes around them on the gently sloping hill coming down from the woods.

Through the scopes of their L85 assault rifles, they kept the visitors continuously in their sights. One snarl, one sight of red eyes, so much as a twitch that was too animal to be anything but the enemy, and a volley of gunshots would have rung out, ending the threat before it even knew it wasn't alone. But for now, the civilians walked among the hastily-abandoned mess tents, the parked Bedford lorries and 'borrowed' civilian helicopter.

They appeared confused, dismayed- but not infected. So the hard eyes of soldiers watched them, waiting to see what would happen next, the sergeant in charge of the detail silently waved his men down. They weren't infected, and if in a few minutes they still weren't, that would be enough.

One of the rifles that was trained on the taxicab's driver was held by a man young enough to be the driver's son. One of the youngest-ever corporals in his Royal Marine Commando unit prior to the outbreak, the young man had never seen combat in his life until the infection. Now he was the only man of his rank left anywhere in Manchester's defenders, the only one not dead or insane with rage. His cold, hard gaze softened slightly, just slightly, when the rifle's barrel was trained on the taxi driver and the girl, who was probably his daughter. But the woman, the black one, and the man badly in need of a shower- the corporal watched them closely. There was something very much amiss about one, or both of them.

They had the confident stride of civilians-turned-veterans, forced into the warrior's occupation by the hellish ravages of the infection. But they had never been properly trained, correctly conditioned. "Loose cannon" was a term the Yanks liked to use. That's what they were. Wild cards. Loose cannons. Just as the corporal began to seriously consider shooting one of them, a shout came from the group down below.

"GO FUCKING WHERE!?"

The older man stormed off under one of the metal structures hastily thrown up as a sniper's post. The sniper was still there, having been shot by none other than the young corporal himself shortly after an enterprising infected managed to climb not high enough on the ladder up to claw, but just close enough to bite. As the soldiers watched, the taxi driver sat down, holding his head in his hands. Clearly this blockade had been his last hope. The Major's recorded message, its promise of security and salvation, was the extent of his plans. The other three in the group stood near one of the Bedfords, giving the man time to think. With a quick hand signal, the corporal asked the sergeant- show ourselves? An equally quick hand gesture by the sergeant answered- no. We wait. Though young and arrogant, as parachute infantry were known to be the world over, the privates in the squad knew better than to contradict the only noncoms left to them. They waited.

With a sudden flutter of black wings, a crow landed on the sniper's body. Cawing in an ugly cry of triumph, it looked down at the dead man who had once lived in the centre of Liverpool, and had once declared the Simpsons to be his all-time favourite show, and began to peck at the decaying flesh. Hearing its hideous cries, the taxi driver stood up and growled something at it. The crow ignored him, so the man walked closer to the corrugated steel tower and said it louder: "Get out of it!" then he made his mistake, the only mistake of a man who had with surprising swiftness and intelligence acted to save his family from the infection. But it was for him just as every Army sergeant yelled into the faces of his raw recruits: it only needs to happen once.

The man kicked the steel foot of the tower, and suddenly recoiled, recognizing too late his error in looking up at the dead soldier as he tried to drive off the crow. He dropped his crowbar with a heavy clang, now looking at the ground and bringing a hand to his face- perhaps he was blinking in desperation, not knowing it was already too late. The sergeant now motioned to his men- twenty seconds. The taxi driver's remaining lifespan had just been decided.

Through his gas mask, under the heavy but now-normal weight of his helmet and gear, the corporal watched the scene as it unfolded, still with all parties down below unaware that the entire thing was being watched. The man was speaking to his daughter; perhaps he understood what had happened, and was saying goodbye. She didn't understand, and walked towards him. The man yelled, seemingly in anger but now more in fear, and threw her away. "Keep away! Keep away from me!" he yelled, his frenzied shouts of warning quickly collapsing into furious coughs and growls of a very different kind. The black woman yelled at the younger man, who now had a bat raised. She was screaming, "Jim! Jim, kill him!"

The taxi driver whirled at the sound of a voice; even at a distance the soldiers could see the snarling expression that formed the moment he heard the woman scream. She made a useless effort to shield the girl with her arms; against a large, powerfully-built man like the girl's father, such a defense was useless. The young man was taking too long in raising his bat. Had it not been for Her Majesty's Armed Forces, the corporal reflected, idiots like him would have been dead long ago. Just as 'Jim' got around to starting a swing, and the taxi driver took his first step into an enraged charge, the timer in the corporal's head- and that of every soldier present- reached zero. At the sergeant's indication, the corporal and two men opened up on the taxi driver at once. A rapid volley of shells spat out of the sides of their rifles as English copper-sheathed bullets slammed into the bearded man's back and sides. In no more than a second the man sank to his knees and collapsed, but at the corporal's encouragement a few additional shots were fired, the big man's body shuddering with the force of the impacts. By then Sergeant Farrell had taken Davis and moved swiftly but cautiously downhill towards the civilians, keeping his weapon up as he moved. Covering from the hill, Corporal Cameron Ward shouted through his mask, "Stay away from him!" the civilians, appearing very shocked for people who must surely have witnessed the death of loved ones more than once before, looked up; they might not have even known they were moving. By then, Farrell had reached the civilians and signaled for the others to advance. Taking Jones and Bedford with him, Ward rushed down the hill and towards the steel structures, where the body had fallen. With the others covering the inside and outside of the perimeter, Ward cautiously stepped forward and prodded the taxi driver's body with his boot.

Nothing.

Most of the seemingly-abandoned trucks and utility vehicles at the blockade weren't: Sergeant Farrell had managed to have or find keys for nearly all of them before and since the fall of Manchester. Since the Bedfords were noisy, slow, and did not have swivel-mounted machine guns as the Land Rovers did, most of them were left at the blockade, no longer needed in their duty as troop-carriers due to an extreme shortage of troops. Not wasting any time, Farrell called into his radio that the scouting party was on its way back, and in less than a minute quick, quiet commands by Ward had the two Wolves started up, their drivers and machine gunners in position, the civilians quickly herded into the troop bay of the second Wolf. Jones drew the honour of driving the taxi.

As the convoy drove back to the country mansion that the surviving men of M62 blockade had turned into their base, Ward stood in the bed of the second Wolf, cradling his L85 as he radioed in, "Three survivors. One male, two female. I repeat: one male, two female. ETA, fifteen. Put the kettle on." For the rest of the ride, which in reality only took then minutes but seemed to take that long in years, the young corporal stood in the back of the utility vehicle, his face expressionless, much as the civilians' were. The gas masks had been removed as the unit mounted up; once mobile and on the way back to base, Farrell deemed their offer of protection less useful than greater visibility. Ward could think of nothing to say, and clearly neither could the civilians. Join the Marines and kill a girl's father, he thought grimly. It seemed like the whole of Britain was doomed to waste out its last gaps of life as a civilization giving and taking death. Nothing else.

Ward avoided looking at the civilians, whose blank, vacant stares reminded him too much of his own. He stared instead at the retreating woods, swaying slightly with the motions of the Land Rover. The corporal had loved the outdoors growing up, and anything was better than another pair of dead eyes.


	2. Chapter 2- New Arrivals

**Chapter II- New Arrivals**

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The house was still an impressive sight after all this time. Even with all that had happened elsewhere, the vast and impressive country estate had changed surprisingly little. It stood tall and majestic amidst so many yards of clear, open grass, surrounded by forest and untouched by the inferno still consuming Manchester. The move-in by the Army had been fully intended to take over and repurpose the house as a military base, the perfect defense against the infected with floodlights, land mines, trip and barbed wires, and all the small arms and ammunition an entire company could need stocked within its walls. Two Bedfords and another pair of Wolves were parked in the front courtyard, but even with all that in place, Ward had never once felt like his unit had taken over the house. Not truly.

It was almost as if the house was tolerating their presence, humouring them even. Maybe that was all so much nonsense, and certainly Farrell was the only man in the group who would truly appreciate such talk. But Ward had learned to never ignore his intuition, and believed absolutely that if an idea, a reflection on something, came to him there must be a reason for it. This attitude had driven him far in a short time with the Royals, and when the infected began their rampage across England it had kept Ward alive. He trusted the Queen- wherever she was- the Corps- whatever was left of it- and himself. That was it. As the convoy reached the gates, held doubly shut by heavy wrought-iron gates and less elegant but far more deadly Army 'hedgehogs' wrapped in barbed wire, Privates Bell and Bedford moved the blockade aside and unlocked the gates.

As the vehicles drove through, Ward waited until he'd jumped down from the Wolf to turn and give Bedford and Bell the thumbs-up. Major West introduced himself shortly, and the civilians were taken into the house and rooms were set up for them. Outside, the soldiers resumed their posts for the day, suddenly with a little spring in their step that wasn't there before.

For his part, Ward went about his duties that day much as he always did. The girl was a little too young for his tastes, and the black she-warrior held no interest for him. Ward did not make a point of sleeping with women who might go crackers and kill him for sport. The others, save Sergeant Farrell, weren't quite so picky from the talk that went on here and there through the rest of the daylight hours. As corporal, Ward was naturally looked to for his opinion, and he casually remarked that if the she-warrior were a little less bloody insane, he might have a go at her. The lads gathered round in the kitchen all found this very funny. But while he affected a casual manner about the arrival of these civilians, Ward felt a sense of unease he hadn't since his phone call home just a few months after his promotion to corporal. As he stood on guard duty outside the front gate, Clifton standing off to his left, Ward recalled how that time had gone from an emergency deployment outside London to sheer madness, and for Britain at least the very end of the world.


	3. Chapter 3- Memories of Infection

**Chapter III- Memories of Infection**

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He'd been sitting in a rec room just after his unit came to the 42 Mechanised Brigade's base, having taken over the entire airport at Luton. The men of 45 Commando had been much-welcomed by the hastily thrown-together 42nd Mechanised Brigade, a mish-mash of mechanized infantry, armour, and men from the Parachute Regiment. Ward had been sitting with the lads in his squad, informing them all of just how little Tony Blair really knew about what to do with 'those bloody Frogs'.

Then the telly had begun broadcasting emergency news about the 'riots' in Cambridge that were starting to spread into London. A panicked reporter had begun filming the work of a clearly overworked police captain in organizing a defensive line, but the captain had shoved her away and begun yelling orders to his men as a massive, unruly crowd advanced. The camera's audio was far from perfect, but even the most distracted listener could not have missed the sounds. As the crowd and the police line hit and clashed viciously, there were no revolutionary war-cries, no yells casting doubt on the good name of a policeman's mother. Instead, all the men in the rec room heard was… animals. Growls, snarls, angry, inarticulate sounds of aggression. Nothing like any riot any of them had ever heard of.

Even then, though, most of them had tried to brush it off, even ignoring their own unease at being suddenly shipped down to a thrown-together base at Luton airport. But then the police line began to waver, and when it broke at a point close to the reporter, and a group of 'rioters' charged straight at the cameraman, someone yelled, "Fuckin' 'ell!" the camera hit the ground, and the growls and snarls, louder now, were all that could be heard as a stampede of running feet passed the still-running camera. Then the connection cut out, and the television showed only static.

For a full minute the room was silent. No one moved. No one spoke. Finally, it was Lieutenant Wells who broke the silence- no one knew how long he'd been standing in the doorway. He tried to keep his voice light, but his eyes betrayed the cold fear he felt. The lieutenant said, "Looks like our holiday's cancelled, lads." He turned and left, and eventually the men wandered out of the room, no one quite feeling like relaxing anymore.

That night, Ward had called his parents' home in New Romney, and in no uncertain terms told them to take everybody in the family they could find and "get the bloody hell out of England." His mother had answered the phone, and she hadn't understood at first. Weren't the riots just a minor problem, and wasn't the Army going to make sure the police could restore order? But Ward had insisted. "Mum! I can't say anything else! The telly doesn't know everything. Tell everybody you're all going to visit Uncle Liam in Cookstown or something!" His mother had still tried to argue, but already she was sounding nervous- her sons were all good British boys; one in the Royal Marines, one in the Navy, and the youngest, Sam, in his fourth year at the Duke of York's. For one of them to be worried meant something. But it was Ward's father, George, a retired Brigadier of the British Army, who had finally swayed her. From near the phone, Ward had heard him say, "Cameron is right, Sarah. This isn't good."

There was a long silence on his mother's end of the line. Then finally, in a deadly quiet voice, she said, "It was those damn monkeys, wasn't it?"

Cameron Ward made no effort to include himself in his family's escape plans. He was a loyal son of England, and had been brought up to always stand his ground whatever happened. His mum and dad never asked, during the last minutes of a short conversation, if he planned on trying to join them as they made their way to the airport. They would try to pick up Sam, but already phone lines to schools anywhere near London were getting jammed, and David, at sea commanding the HMS Vanguard, could not be reached either. No one in the Ward family could do anything for their elder two sons but hope for the best, now. The last words Cameron got out to his family were, "I'll be all right. Stay safe. I love you." When he hung up, Cameron Ward sat on his bunk, an unmanning feeling of cold, deep fear running through him. This was going to get bad. He didn't understand any of what was happening, and his family probably didn't either. But anyone who had some sense could tell this was no ordinary riot. This was different.

It had taken less than a minute for two burly MI6 men to storm the barracks and snatch Ward that night, and day for them to finish browbeating him for revealing to civilians, any civilians, that the official story that the situation was controlled and only a riot wasn't true. But after that day, Cambridge had been overrun and the Army and Air Force had raced everything they could possibly get their hands on- even sub-launched cruise missiles were rumoured to be on standby- to halt this rampage at Luton. Corporal Cameron Ward had been summarily released back to duty with his unit, no comment made and no questions asked. He learned later the truth of the chaos- the infection- had gone out on the news the same day.

Ward stood on a Land Rover Wolf, gripping the machine gun hard enough to turn his knuckles white as one platoon from 45 Commando led a pair of tanks from the 1st Armoured Division into the city. Their column was the spearhead of a massive assault, involving the heaviest concentration of British firepower since the Second World War. RAF Typhoon jets streaked overhead, followed by Harriers taking off from the _HMS Invincible_. The heavy, thudding explosions of artillery, both shell and rocket, could be heard and occasionally seen in the distance as the column drove forward. Radio chatter was constant, and more and more frantic voices were yelling over the sound of gunfire… and the inhuman growls of infected. Then Ward's Wolf had rounded a corner, and somebody in the vehicle gasped "Fucking hell" as they saw.

The street in front of Luton's police headquarters was engulfed in hell. The building itself was ablaze, not a living policeman in sight. Nearby, other buildings were catching. "I heard they were trying to call for support, the lads in the station were." The Wolf's driver remarked, his voice deadpan. Ward's mouth suddenly felt very dry. "Guess they got it."

But the carnage at the station itself was nowhere near as bad as the street- cars were everywhere, and bodies. The infected were smashing in windows, tearing at anyone they could find. A massive double-decker bus was on its side, so many cars smashed up against it as if they'd been hoping to move it. Two blocks away, the snarls of infected, and the pop of small arms fire came from a set of apartment blocks. The street they'd come to hopelessly blocked, the soldiers in Ward's column argued over what to do. Just then, a group of twelve infected came charging around the cars at them, probably attracted by the headlights of the vehicles. The lieutenant in charge barked from the tank, "Open fire!" and a chatter of rifle and machine gun fire answered him.

The infected were down in seconds- not one got closer than ten feet from the lead vehicle- but already the soldiers were learning that gunfire only attracted more of the same. Sure enough, they began appearing within a minute of the column backing out of the street they'd turned onto. Insisting they still had orders to retake the city, the lieutenant ordered they simply continue down the street they'd been on in the first place, one that could yet take them into the city center. But the men all looked nervous, more so than they'd been at the outset. The noise of people killing people was all around them, and it was clear the infected were rampaging through Luton at an uncontrollable rate. Too many advance units were badly behind schedule in the assault, or were no longer reporting at all.

As the Wolf turned back onto the main street, the Challenger's gun belched thunder. Human screams followed- not of pain, but of fear. "Tell those people to stay back!" the lieutenant commanding the tank ordered. It didn't take long to see why- a crowd of people, eighty to a hundred at least, had been running up the road at the column as it attempted to redirect itself. The tank had fired over them to stop the charge. But the refugees hadn't been alone. What the soldiers in the ten-vehicle column noticed next made every man's blood run cold. Just as many infected were right on their tail, red eyes wide, mouths open and teeth bared, hands shaped into fists or claws. More than a few had blood on their hands, and Ward remembered later reflecting that before long, that was going to be true of everyone.

The crowd slowed, but didn't stop. They were afraid of the tank, sure, and even so many yards off Ward could see the terror plain on the civilian's faces. Now their fear was doubled, having been introduced to the chance that they might yet be brutally killed from the front as well as behind. Somebody, a man with a noticeable Scottish accent, yelled, "You're the bloody fuckin' Army! Let us through, for God's sake!" Ward keyed his mike. "Leftenant, why are these people here? They told us the city was empty!" The lieutenant shouted back, his voice plainly conveying his own shock, "We're not here to evacuate anyone! Back up and form a defensive line; I've got to contact Command!"

The corporals and sergeants in the column obeyed, and in moments the Wolfs and two Challenger tanks had completely blocked off the T-intersection on both sides of the corner they'd reached. The tanks aimed their guns downrange at the crowd, as did the machine gunners and riflemen not covering the ruined police station. Ward, his Wolf now positioned in the middle of the street, fired a burst as the civilians began to run forward again. He could see why- the infected were very close. Too close. But orders were orders. "Royal Marines! Stay back or we open fire!" Ward yelled. But the shout just came back again, now a desperate chant that said warning shots weren't going to hold anyone for much longer- "Let us through! Let us through!"

The lieutenant spoke into the radio again, as the people closed to fifty yards and Ward could see who they were; mothers carrying their children, fathers carrying rucksacks and machetes. Teenagers ran with them; one lad carried a child that couldn't have been more than two; Ward figured that must have been the child's brother. The lieutenant's words would haunt the few men in the unit who lived forever: "Command says no selective targeting; shoot everything! Clear the street!" There was a pause. A beat.

Even these men, some veterans from previous deployments, could see this was not what they'd been trained for. This was not what Ward had joined the Royal Marines to do. A sergeant turned and yelled back at the tank, "That's bloody fucking murder, leftenant! Those are people out there! OUR people!"

"Fire!" the lieutenant yelled back.

The lieutenant took hold of the machine gun in front of his hatch, and for a moment it looked like he meant to shoot the sergeant who had refused his order. But then a bullet zinged off the windshield of Ward's Wolf, and the screams of fear turned to agony as the infected reached the crowd and began tearing into them. More guns went off, including the distinctive bark of a L85 rifle one of the civilians had somehow gotten their hands on. Off to the right someone shouted, "Get a damn medic! We've got a man hit here!" That did it. Forced into a situation as desperate as the refugees', the men in Ward's column collectively made a decision: survive.

The Challengers' main cannons roared, the machine guns stuttered, and every rifle and machine gun added its own voice to the chorus. The Commandos were expert marksmen, and their lethal efficiency made sure nothing before them lived long. Ward dropped his aim, no longer firing over anybody's head. The machine gun chattered, spitting brass shells out as its copper-sheathed lead cut into human and infected alike. Beyond keeping standing bodies in his sights, Ward quickly learned not to look at what he was shooting. He glazed his vision over, shooting not at their eyes and faces, but their coats, jackets, t-shirts and polo's. The gunfire thundered in his ears, and for a few moments the screams were almost louder than the guns. In no more than forty seconds, it was over. Not one man, woman or child anywhere in the street was left standing.

Smoke drifted from the barrel of Ward's machine gun. No one spoke; and at the same time, the sounds of what was going on around them was suddenly so much easier to hear. Artillery slammed down all around the city; RAF and RN aircraft were roaring overhead much more than before. As the men in Ward's Wolf watched, two Tornadoes whipped past, flying no more than five hundred feet off the ground, and dropped a cluster of bombs into the apartment blocks Ward had seen earlier. In a flash the apartments exploded, toppled, and were gone. More towards the city center, more airstrikes were happening, and that had been when the lieutenant finally found his voice again. "Turn this bloody column around." He all but whispered. "We're getting out of here."

Before they left, as the vehicles were all turned around and preparing to abandon their attack into the city, Ward had insisted on dismounting and walking over to the bodies in the main road, the two-hundred-something people he'd just killed. Before anyone could ask what he was doing, Ward had walked up to the first civilian, a woman in her late forties with brown-black hair just starting to turn gray. She could have been his mother; no doubt she was for someone. She'd been shot in the belly, a slow, hard way to die. As Ward reached her, she put out a hand and gripped his ankle, her eyes pleading silently. The young corporal shot her between the eyes, then moved over to the next closest person he saw move or heard groan. Then the next. And the next. He spent maybe twelve rounds in all; it was surprising that even that many had lived through all that gunfire. Then he heard them; the infected.

More were charging out from alleyways, down the street, across lawns. Suddenly it seemed like they were everywhere. Ward snapped to a kneeling position and began to shoot, dropping the creatures one after the other with quick, precise shots. The dead were all around him, his combat trousers stained with blood at the knees, when the fast-reversing Wolf stopped just a foot short of him, somebody jumped out, and a rifle stock crashed down on his head. Just as this blow struck his helmet, an artillery salvo thundered across the city, this time so close the impact seemed to slam at Ward's very nerves. The world went dark, and Corporal Ward was unceremoniously thrown into the back of the Land Rover as the column sped away. Driving as fast as the Challengers would allow, the column raced back out of the city, more jets closing in on targets behind them. Thousands died in Luton that day. Many, many thousands were infected, just as the plan had been. But so many, far too many, had been entirely normal people, just waiting in their homes or fleeing down the street, all the while believing that the Army would come to save them, until it was far too late.

Within 48 hours Luton fell to the rampaging hordes of infected, and the 42nd Mechanised Brigade began the first of a long series of retreats, ending at a blockade just South of Manchester. 45 Commando had withdrawn more slowly, forming its platoons into hunter-killer teams who both slowed the efforts of the infected to follow the Army's retreat and killed any deserting soldiers or policemen found behind the lines. The ruthless efficiency of the Commandos actually made them very popular with Army units; British Army forces that operated alongside the Marines had a higher tendency to get out of hot areas alive.

45 Commando had gone on more than a half dozen additional missions throughout that chaotic twenty-eight days, slowly losing men along the way. Operating alone in most and eventually all of their final missions, 45 Commando fought their way north to Manchester, where the Royal Navy had promised to evacuate them. By then, more than twenty days after the infection, the men of 45 Commando were the last ones out the door; such "strategically valuable" forces as commandos were all but guaranteed a place in the evacuation roster.

But when the Marines had reached the defenses at the M62 blockade, seen how hopelessly unready the men were, they had met as one unit. The OC had offered them all a place on the _HMS Invincible_, which had helicopters ready to withdraw 45 Commando and a team of SBS in the area across the Channel. But to a man, they'd all refused. Each man knew that even the Army's best units at the blockade were battered, and any lesser forces would have no chance at all. Literally tens of thousands of infected were headed their way, and the people in Scotland would need more than conscripts, reservists, and handful of weary paratroopers to buy them time. That was what the choice came down to, why every man in 45 Commando chose to stay. Buying the people in the north time.

They'd made their choice, and Ward had seen firsthand as they suffered the consequences. Each and every man in 45 Commando learned the cost of the choice they'd made. But never, not once, had any of his mates expressed regret at their choice. Every one of them had said he'd do it all again.


	4. Chapter 4- The House in the Country

**Chapter IV- The House in the Country**

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Ward turned at the sound of the civilians' taxi starting up, and despite the seriousness of his thoughts, he couldn't help but smile. A couple of the lads had gotten in the taxi and were driving it in a circle around Jones, who had obviously come outside to get food from the stores. He stood there, complaining of all the cooking he still had to do, while Bedford and two others ignored him. Finally, though, Ward felt the need to call them off.

Raising his voice, he called, "Right, you men! That's enough there, you leave Doris alone!" The three soldiers laughed loudly at this- Doris had somehow become Jones' nickname, along with "tin-opener"- but they did soon park the taxi and return to their own duties. Turning back to scanning the open ground and tree line in his line of sight, Ward heard a click and the flare of a small flame as Clifton lit up a cigarette. Still scanning the grounds, Ward didn't bother hiding his disdain. "Why do you bother with that shit, Clifton?"

Clifton sounded surprised. "Well, I picked it up-"

"Because you're a bloody idiot, Private Clifton," Ward said, cutting him off. He went on to say, "If I want to kill myself at all, I'll just get on with it. To bloody hell with doing it slowly; I'll walk straight down the drive and off towards Manchester, all the while shouting that Tony Blair couldn't get off his fat arse if he had to." Clifton laughed, and Ward smiled a little at his own joke. But he kept his eyes on the trees.

Morale remained high throughout the day, though Ward had no trouble guessing why. Encountering Sergeant Farrell outside as the sergeant worked on one of the Bedford's engines, Ward remarked, "They're going to try something soon." As he walked over, L85 crooked in his arm as always. Farrell rolled out from under the truck and looked up at him, taking a towel sitting next to the toolbox and wiping grease form his hands. "Rather, you mean the Major will. They won't do a thing until he says so." Ward looked off across the yard. Major West was walking along the perimeter wall with the man Jim, gesturing occasionally at Clifton and Bell, who were at work on the lawn, planting more mines and trip wires to replace those lost in the last attack. The sergeant and the corporal watched Major West for a few moments, each silent with his own uneasy thoughts.

Then Farrell spoke. "Funny, you know. West being like he is, after all that's happened, and Jones still like a schoolboy after all the same things. He's been through everything the Major has. He's lost all the same things. So have you, and me, and the rest of the lads." Ward nodded thoughtfully. West and Jim had left the yard, headed elsewhere in the mansion. "The grand tour." Ward laughed at Farrell's words. It wasn't often the sergeant displayed his sense of humour, but when he did few could surpass him. There was precious little competition left, now. Ward's next words were more in line with Farrell's trademark seriousness, though. "We're going to have to shoot Mailer, Sergeant." Farrell nodded, but still asked, "Why?" Ward responded, "You know why. There's nothing he can 'teach' us that we can't learn from not keeping one of the bloody things in here. We've no bars over the windows in that yard, and if he gets loose he could smash 'em in and kill us all in our beds tonight." Fire rose in Ward's voice. "For God's sake, he's supposed to be a Major, and he's talking about seeing how long Mailer takes to starve to death! How hard is that to figure out? We don't need to chain one of those fuckin' things up in the bloody yard!" Ward suddenly fell silent again, as if he'd decided he'd said too much. Farrell packed up his toolbox, replaced his helmet, slung his rifle back over his shoulder and walked off towards the mansion's interior, gesturing for the corporal to follow him. As he did, the sergeant said quietly, "We'd best do this quickly."

Major West was almost done with touring the house with the civilian, Jim. For the last few minutes they'd been downstairs, talking of the boiler, the generators, and viewing the kitchen as Jones was at work. West again noticed that while plenty eager to help, Jones' culinary skills were sorely lacking to say the least. Then there was a rapid volley of gunshots from outside- it sounded like someone had let off a burst on full automatic. Jones squeaked and dropped his stirring spoon, Jim looked at West, and West turned on his heel and all but flew down the hall. Shouts of alarm echoed through the mansion, and West nearly collided with Sergeant Farrell as the two converged on the door to the back courtyard. Recovering his composure, West snapped, "What's happened, Sergeant?" Farrell looked at the door and then at West. "You stay behind me, sir."

Raising his rifle as West warily drew his sidearm, Farrell threw open the courtyard door, opening access to an enclosed garden area, blocked by a high brick wall from one side but with several low-mounted windows on the other. Originally meant to be a garden or perhaps a laundry area in the event that the washers and dryers broke down, the yard now held the infected Private Mailer, once the ninth survivor of the 42nd Brigade. With his infection eight days ago, the number of men left in the brigade had dropped to the same. Now, though, Farrell and West burst into the yard, weapons raised, to find Corporal Ward standing with his back against the wall, rifle held at the shoulder, and a look of shock on his face. Mailer was stretched out on the ground in front of him. West looked at him and repeated his earlier question, once again with that same snap of command.

"He got loose, sir! I heard him growling and trying to break the chain. I got out here just as he got loose." The corporal recovered his composure with remarkable speed- this ability to calm down and carry on, even after all that had happened, was one reason why both of his remaining superiors had no shortage of respect for him. West paused, suddenly wondering. Farrell was normally calm too, but even he had been a bit calm for the circumstances, outside the door. It was almost as if… he'd known this was going to happen. The thought nagged at West, but he brushed it away and holstered his weapon. Mailer had somehow gotten wise of the chain wrapped round his neck, or maybe the rail spike that tethered him to the ground. He'd gotten loose, and Ward had shot him. What more was there to say? Leaving orders for the body to be disposed of- quickly and carefully- West departed the enclosed yard, returning to the kitchen to finish showing the house to Jim. Still in the yard, the two NCO's looked at each other and solemnly nodded. Private Mailer was dead. Justice had been served, and the house was safe. For right now that was all that mattered.


	5. Chapter 5- New Friends at Dinner

**Chapter V- New Friends at Dinner**

* * *

Night was not long in coming, and with it dinner. After the surviving men of the 42nd had moved into the country house, all had agreed that dinner be immediately after dark, whenever that might be in the day. It made it simpler for the men who'd be standing night watch. But tonight, there was reason to celebrate. Whoever they might be, the three civilians that had been rescued from the blockade today were just that: civilians. Three common people of the United Kingdom who had defied all odds to survive the fall of the British homeland and even make it all the way from London to Manchester's outskirts. Of course the lads might never phrase it that way, but they probably understood it in their own terms. Or did they? Throughout the day, Ward had wondered what was going to happen when push came to shove over their female guests. Jim would be shot the minute he tried to interfere; Ward understood that much. But who would the men listen to when the moment of truth arrived? Two NCO's and one officer survived, all of whom were capable leaders and excellent soldiers. But the OC was not all there anymore. His ideas for rebuilding the British nation- and all talk that the rest of the world might yet live had certainly ceased to come from West- were becoming despotic to say the least, and his methods for enforcing discipline matched.

Ward wore his combats to dinner, much as all the rest of the men did. His double corporal's chevrons were sewn onto the arms of his sweater, just as Sergeant Farrell's three stripes were on his. The rest of the men had no ranks to sport, all being privates.

While they waited for West, the men talked and chattered with good spirit and humour, though Farrell, sitting at one end of the table, took little part. Ward talked and joked with the rest of the men, but after a few minutes called a halt to the idle talk. Ignoring the complete lack of participation from the three civilians and putting on his best announcer's voice, Ward said, "Now, now, lads, we have a very special guest joining us this evening. He's the best damn officer in the British Army- because he's the only one still alive!" the men laughed uproariously. "And he'll be here any moment. Let's sing our favourite song for him, shall we, then?"

Conducted by their brigade's last living corporal, the soldiers banged their spoons on the table to the tune of "We Hope It's Chips", singing hopefully of a great many foods that, as long as Jones was cooking, would likely never be seen again at the mess table. When Major Henry West stepped into the still grand-looking dining hall, resplendent in his olive drab dress uniform, the men clapped and cheered. West smiled and bowed in acknowledgement, then made his way to the head of the table. Suddenly he veered left, however, and snatched a button-littered camouflage hat from Clifton's head. "Hat!" he snapped with mock sternness, tossing it down in Clifton's lap.

He then proceeded to walk up and down the table, inspecting the food Jones had laid out. "What have we here?" he asked, affecting the air of a man hoping for great surprise. West did remarkably well, given how all the men knew the food was always the same, day in and day out.

"Tinned ham, tinned beans, tinned pork, and-"he paused dramatically as he reached a covered tray, then lifted the cloth- "Omelet!" now he really did sound surprised. "You've prepared a feast, Jones!" Jones, looking quite ludicrous in his combats and pink cooking apron, nodded appreciatively. "Honour of our guests, sir."

West nodded in affirmation. "Exactly. I was going to propose a toast, but this omelet will do just as well." Taking a fork from his end of the table and returning to spear some of the eggs, West passed the omelet out to the rest of the table's occupants, and raised his own fork in salute. "To new friends."

"To new friends!" the men echoed, the solemn Farrell among them. Ward added his voice to theirs, though he still noticed the civilians looking like three dead fish in human clothes. When were they going to get with the programme? A man had died today, yes, and a man of no small importance to his companions at that. But death- or worse- had visited many in Britain in the past four weeks. Not one bit of this was new to Ward. Not anymore.

This bitter thought was replaced by another, one considerably more pleasant- the taste of good omelet. The first he'd had in a long, long time. The corporal sighed happily, lost in his own thoughts as he closed his eyes and remembered the days before. Before everything had gone to shit in just 28 days. From the murmurs around the table, the other soldiers were having similar memories flooding back. Even West looked moved. "We've new guests to take care of now, thanks to our brave sergeant and corporal." He nodded to Farrell and Ward. "And Jones has finally learned how to cook. How he saved those eggs, I'll never know." The table exploded into laughter, and even Jones grinned sheepishly as West finally took his seat.

Looking to Hannah, he said, "I don't suppose you can cook, can you? I can't tell you how badly we need someone with a little flair in the kitchen." Ward added with a wry grin, "I fear we'll not see Jones do so well again soon."

Bedford remarked, "Jones can cook and we've got eggs for once. Someone tell me it's Christmas."

"Oh, we'll have eggs again," Bell added as he reached for more of the rapidly-vanishing omelet, "soon as everything's back to normal."

At this Ward laughed, more amused than bitter for once.

"Aw, you _muppet_." Looking around at the other men, he went on, "I mean, look at him, oy? He's still waiting for Mark's and Spencer's to reopen! Listen, mate, you don't know_ nothing_-"

"Well, I think Bell's got a point." Silence suddenly retook the dining room as Sergeant Farrell, last living NCO in the Parachute Regiment forces defending Manchester, broke in to comment. He spoke with his characteristic quietness, but every man at the table knew that quietness was not to be equated with weakness. Farrell continued, reflectively, "If you look at the whole life of the planet… we, you know, man… has only been around for a few blinks of an eye. So if the infection wipes us all out- that is a return to normality." A long pause. "That what you meant, Bell?"

The privates gathered at the table were clearly baffled; though he hadn't known them long, Ward already understood these men were not philosophers. They would not appreciate or understand such talk, thinking that so heavily focused on what the Yanks always loved calling "the big picture". Bell seemed unsure of what to say, but finally decided on a sarcastic, "Yeah- uh, yeah." The enlisted men burst out laughing; Farrell scowled.

Ward, taking on the same reflective expression as Farrell, nodded in agreement, his voice easily rising above the soldiers around him. "It's true, though. Man's not been around long."

West looked amused; Ward figured it was for the men's laughter and Farrell's philosophy both- though an educated man and an officer, the Major had never cared much for Farrell's unique way of thinking.

The presence of a man not truly under his command- a Royal Marine who had participated in half a dozen behind-the-lines hunter-killer operations, no less- did not help matters. Ward had more than once gotten the feeling that while West's professional instincts mandated that he work alongside the two NCO's he was given, his personal instincts were saying something different.

Making an aside to the civilians, West said, "Have you met our new age sergeant and corporal? Our spiritual gurus? Tell me- exactly why did you both join the military in the first place?" Farrell just scowled some more, setting his jaw and refusing to talk. He could tell when he was being mocked. But Ward chose to offer a more verbal response. "For the same reason you did, sir. I wanted to shoot people."

There was an odd mix of sarcasm and sincerity in the corporal's voice, an odd combination that made it hard for even West to divine his exact meaning. So instead, the Major chose to simply shrug, and make a comment of his own: "This is what I've seen in the four weeks since infection. People killing people. Which is much what I saw in the four weeks before infection, and the four weeks before that, and before that, as far back as I care to remember- people killing people. Which, to my mind, puts us in a state of normality right now."

The room was silent again; no one, even the two NCO's, seemed to know how to respond, or what to say. Ward, thinking about what he'd seen and done, understood the Major's point well. But that wasn't all there was to the world- people killing people. There had to be more. Even now. There just _had_ to be something more to it than that.

It was Selena who spoke next, turning in her chair to Hannah, who had sat and observed the entire conversation thus far with a blank look on her face. She looked dulled to… everything. With a stab of guilt, Ward remembered killing her father today. That explained plenty. But the feeling was a small one, and did not last long. He'd killed many girls' fathers before.

"Hanna, you're not eating." Selena said, concern obvious in her voice. Hannah's came back, as flat as Selena's was worried.

"I don't want to eat."

"You must eat, Hannah." West said.

Then Hannah looked at the Major, seeming to notice him for the first time. "I don't want to eat," she said, her voice regaining life for the first time that day. But not of good cheer- it was bitterness that gave the girl's voice flavour again. "I want to bury my dad. He's one of the people you're talking about."

If silence had been retaking the room at a few moments before, it owned the dining hall now. Even West was silenced, unable to find any way around the young girl's retort. There you have it, a part of Ward's mind said. The truth of both worlds. Yes, a lot of people have been killing people since the infection, and they certainly had been for a long time before that. But those 'people' were mothers, fathers, brothers, sons. They were indeed part of what the Major was talking about.

From out on the lawn, a roar of smoke and flame- the vibrations shook the room, silverware rattled. A land-mine had just gone off on the lawn. Instantly the men looked at each other, and the two NCO's were already on their feet. Farrell was all business now. The philosopher in him certainly wasn't a detriment to his performance in combat. He roared as if to out-shout the land-mine, "STAND TO! STAND TO!"


	6. Chapter 6- Defending the House

**Chapter VI- Defending the House**

* * *

Instantly, there was a blinding rush of men and uniforms as each soldier snatched up his weapon and bolted from the room, encouraged by the screams of the sergeant and corporal along the way. "Move it, men! Get your arses outside! Now, now, now!" Ward yelled as they charged headlong down the hallway, each man racing to his previously-determined firing post. As they reached the entrance hall of the house, Farrell, Bell, Davis and Bedford raced upstairs, while Ward found himself sprinting outside along with Jones and Clifton. A Wolf was parked along the perimeter wall, its machine gun loaded and in place. As Jones and Clifton crouched behind the wall and waited for the first targets to come in range, Ward jerked back the charging handle on the machine gun and waited himself. These attacks, as much danger as they posed, were also fun in their own way.

To a professional soldier and trained marksman with as much reserve ammunition as these eight soldiers had, the headlong frontal assaults that comprised the infected's entire tactical arsenal were a joke. As groups of them began to rush onto the lawn, clearly undeterred by the floodlights, sirens, and the violent death of one of their own just moments ago, Ward pressed the triggers and the machine gun began to chatter. "It's like shooting rats in a barrel!" he crowed. But he spoke little after that, and aimed steady. He'd seen what happened to those who didn't.

For the most part, Farrell belted out orders as necessary, occasionally calling for fire on a specific zone. The soldiers shouted out targets to one another, making sure none got close. Infected rushed onto the open ground of the lawn, and infected died. In spite of the cold night, heat began to radiate from the machine gun's barrel as Ward fired in bursts, again and again. He could hear Jones' and Clifton's rifles barking, and at one moment he could have sworn he saw Jones drop one. Sure enough, Jones turned to him, looking for all the world like a lad at Christmas. "Ward!" he cried, "I fucking got one!"

Pausing for just a moment, Ward put a sarcastic smile on his face. "Well, whaddya want, a fucking VC? Keep shooting, you cunt!"

An instant later, when he looked down the sights again, Ward's blood ran cold. One infected, taking advantage of that single moment's lapse in vigilance, had made it farther than the rest and was getting uncomfortably close to the house. He had no chance- the wall was high enough to stop him in most places, and it had barbed wire along all of it- but still. Ward didn't like it at all. "Shit!" he swore, then yelled, "Shift fire, drop the bugger in front!"

Jones saw the man and snapped off a handful of shots, all of them misses. Clifton swore as his gun either jammed or ran out of ammunition. It didn't matter. There wasn't time to look. Ward sprayed rounds at the infected, who was now close enough that in the floodlights' glare he could make out the man's stupid plaid shirt. The burst of fire was enough to halt him, but as the infected man went down on his face, he hit one of the mines, and the explosion threw his upper half directly onto another one. The two thunderous blasts jarred Ward's very nerves. Charred, smoking bits and pieces of the man's flesh and clothes rained down on the barbed wire and the Wolf's hood.

Ears still dulled from the two explosions, Ward shouted joyously, "Fuckin 'ell! He bounced!" Looking across the lawn in front of him, the corporal found further cause to celebrate. "The bastards all buggered off!"

"Report clear!" Farrell didn't miss a trick. Neither did Ward, who promptly shouted back, "Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

The sirens fell silent again, and as the men started to withdraw back into the house, somebody killed half the floodlights. The men returned to the entrance hall in a fantastic mood, each man all but literally bouncing on the balls of his feet from the adrenaline rush of the firefight. They laughed and joked- but when they caught sight of Selena, everyone got quiet.

A few wolf whistles followed, and somebody called to Ward, who was standing at the forefront of the group, "Go on, Ward! Go on!" Ward could see the woman holding a machete. He made as if to smooth back his hair; a ridiculous gesture given how short it still was. He then slung his rifle, and advanced on Selena, smiling in greeting. "Hey, sweetheart." he said, and grasped the machete, tugging it out of her hand. "You won't be needing this anymore, hey? 'Cause you got me to protect you now." Continuing with the 'show' he was putting on, Ward placed the blade parallel with his groin. "But if you wanna get your hands on a really big 'chopper'… well, you just come and see me!"

"Fuck you."

Ward stopped and looked at the woman, seeing the thoroughly disgusted look on her face. Dropping the smile, he shrugged. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

For some reason or another, the man- Jim- chose that moment to make a grab for the machete. No doubt he disliked some part of the proceedings, but Ward saw him make his move as if it was from ten miles off. The corporal tossed aside the machete and brought up his hands- in the span of five seconds he had grabbed Jim's wrist, ducked, and thrown him flat on his back. Planting a boot on his chest, Ward crowed, "Easy, tiger! Don't wanna go pickin' a fight with me, son!"

Farrell, standing off to the side, spoke now, his voice showing his annoyance clearly. "Come off it, Ward, that's enough."

Ward, still riding high on the adrenaline from the fight, grinned and considered ignoring Farrell. But ultimately he backed off. As Jim stood up and faced him warily, Ward said, "You think you're tough, don't you? You want a fight sometime- a real fight and not that bollocks the infected gave you comin' up here- YOU come and see me."

"Corporal Ward!" Major West barked, his presence in the room unknown until then, however long he'd been there.

Ward straightened up. "Sir."

"First action on?"

"Re-secure the perimeter, sir."

Sharply, West ordered, "Then get to it. Jones, Bedford- go with him."

Ward turned to those two and jerked his head towards the doors. Back outside. As they left, he could hear the Major ordering Farrell to make a quick sweep of the lawn and clear the bodies. When West decided to get things going and give the soldiers orders, he could clearly still do that. And a good thing for him, too- any weak officer would have already failed here.

Half an hour later Ward was walking back inside the entrance hall, for the third time that night; he still had some hope of finishing his dinner, untouched since the first mine exploded, before his two-hour shift on night watch. He frequently volunteered for sentry duty; he was the best man to stand guard in the dark hours of the night, and anything was better than closing his eyes and risking another nightmare. One occasion it was more a vision than a dream, in which he could see the faces, all but literally feel the pain, of the people he'd killed. _Anything_ was better than that, even starving himself for sleep, night after night. Cameron knew, because sometimes the infected were his parents, and the people begging for his help were his brothers.


	7. Chapter 7- Struggle for Power

**Chapter VII- Struggle for Power**

* * *

It was with these heavy thoughts on his weary mind that Ward trudged into the entrance hall, rifle in hand. Bedford and Jones were already headed off to sleep, grateful in their own way for the fact that their corporal constantly took double the guard shifts required of him at night. But then Ward heard a disturbance upstairs, the sound of running- no, pounding- feet. The civilian man was clearly in a panic, his voice damn near echoing throughout the entire house. "What in bloody hell…?" Ward growled, annoyed at the unseemly lack of discipline in whatever was going on. He didn't have to wonder long- it was obvious they were headed his way. Ward simply waited at the side of the stairs the voices were coming from, and when Jim came flying down the stairs, Ward was holding out the stock of his L85. Jim hit the floor like a sack of bricks.

The two females were with him, and both cried out in shock as they saw Jim go down. Ward, now both alarmed and angry, snapped up his rifle. "What the _bloody hell_ is going on here?!" he shouted. "You ladies better talk faster than you think! Come on! What's all this, then?"

"Your officer's going to rape Hannah, that's what." Selena said, her voice shaking. Ward's breath went out of him. He didn't think West was still planning on that. Not seriously.

"The OC? He- I-"

Farrell stepped in, setting a hand on the forward grip of Ward's rifle. Gently, but firmly, he pushed it down. "We've known about this," Farrell said, looking at the civilians. Ward recovered quickly as West himself and all the rest of the men, drawn by the noise, arrived in the room. To the civilians, he quickly ordered, "Get behind me." They did so, and Farrell and Ward fanned out to face West, both their weapons at the ready, fingers on the trigger, but the barrels not up. Not just yet.

The privates, some looking unsure of what to do, stood around the hall, their weapons in hand. Ward knew a quiet kind of fear as he looked around- fear he hadn't known for a long time. Killing infected day by day was one thing. This, what might happen here, now, was something else. West had no weapon in his hands, but his sidearm was at his waist. He could have it up any time he wanted to.

"I can't let them go." West's voice was cold and hard, and his expression matched.

"You're not gonna keep 'em here." Farrell shot back, his features set and his voice equally hard. "We're gonna let 'em go."

West motioned to the soldiers around him. "Men, arrest Sergeant Farrell. Corporal Ward, you're either with us or against us; which will it be? I will not tolerate soldiers who cannot take orders."

An odd thing happened then. Grimly, coldly, the sound of laughter filled the entrance hall. "Bollocks." Ward sneered. "What'll you do? Stop me? I'm a bloody fuckin' _Marine_. Men!" he shouted, the voice of command stopping the others flat in their tracks.

Ward's weapon came up, then Farrell's; soon every soldier but West had a raised weapon, every man with the safety off and a finger on the trigger.

"Men!" Ward yelled again. "You will arrest Major Henry West and place him in solitary confinement!"

"Belay that!" West roared, anger flashing in his eyes. "Men, you will not take orders from a bloody corporal and an insubordinate sergeant! Arrest them, and shoot if they resist!"

The standoff seemed to only grow more intense. Somebody was going to get shot soon. As Farrell stared down Major West, Ward spotted some of the privates slowly closing in on his right. Jones, almost hilariously, was at the forefront.

Ward looked at him. "Jones, stop now before I have to hurt you. You won't stand a chance and you bloody well know it."

Faced with a veteran Commando barely two years older on paper, but many more inside, Jones wilted. He'd already looked scared throughout the confrontation; now he looked terrified. Forced between his OC and a corporal he looked up to- and who he knew could destroy him in close combat- Jones backed off.

"Nossir." He muttered.

"_What_?!" West yelled, shocked beyond belief.

Jones cast a glance at West, and with about all the courage he could summon, said, "No, sir." He stepped off to the side, but now slightly behind the two NCO's. His rifle wasn't aimed at them anymore. The others looked shocked, too. Jones breaking from the OC's big plan was not something anyone had counted on.

Taking advantage of the confusion, Ward yelled at West, "How could it have crossed the rivers, sir?"

Silence.

"How could it have gotten past the bloody Channel, the Atlantic? How do we know the news didn't lie, and the Continent black out our comms?"

West did have his pistol out, now. Ward had just enough time to shout, "Everybody down!" and knock the civilian women down with a backward sweep of his arm before a single shot rang out.

The pain was instant, agonizing, and Ward grimaced- but he never once hesitated. He charged straight at the officer, feinting to the left and dodging right as West fired again. This time the shot missed, but close enough that Ward felt a blast of hot air as it passed. He reached the Major in seconds and slammed the butt of his L85 into the officer, and with a swift punch to the head turning off his lights. Bell and Bedford moved over to help, while Farrell shouted at the others to get the civilians to their car. As Ward struggled to ignore the pain, he made sure West's hands and feet were bound with cord. He made it to his feet and said, "Re-secure the perimeter. Everyone stand ready."

As the civilians were escorted to the door, the youngest- Hannah- turned back.

"What? What is it?" Jones said, his voice cracking with agitation. He clearly didn't know what to think, and this latest change was too much.

"Not without him."

Farrell said flatly, "You can go to your vehicle, ma'am, but I have to tell you-"

"He'll die if you don't help him." Hannah looked at Farrell, speaking with a voice few children could even imagine how to use. "Is that what you want?"

Selena spoke then. "There's got to be a hospital in the city. One that hasn't burned down. I worked at one; I'm not a surgeon… but I could use the tools."

"We can save him."

A long pause. Ward was now leaning against the statue in the middle of the room. West must have shot something important, because it was now getting harder to stand. Farrell walked over and set a hand on the corporal's shoulder. "Can you make it?"

Ward straightened up, ignoring the agony it sent rippling through him, and began to walk for the door. "Bloody _hell_!" he grimaced, but kept going, shrugging them off. "I can walk, damn it! I'm fine, I'm fine."

Ten minutes later a black taxi, once so common on the streets of London, zoomed through the opened gates of the mansion. Major Henry West had been deprived of his keys as well as his authority, and on Sergeant William Farrell's orders the gates were opened- but only briefly. As they swung shut, Bell called after the cab, "You have him back! Enough men have died around here!"

_28 Days Later..._

Cameron Flavel Ward; Corporal, Royal Marines. 45 Commando, last stationed at the M62 blockade Northeast of Manchester. Serial number? Ward's mind swam in a haze as he tried to retrieve the details. He could remember frantic shouts; memories of an operating room. Somewhere. A woman bending over him, telling him he'd be fine. And his own, possibly spoken reply, with its signature amount of sarcasm- of course I'll be fine. Not dead yet, am I?

Cameron Flavel Ward, Corporal, Royal Marines. Those words came back clearer now. He opened his eyes- or seemed to. He had to shut them again almost immediately; it was very bright wherever he was. Vaguely, one possibility occurred to him. "Am I dead?" he said aloud. "No." a voice came back, sounding an awful lot like Sergeant Farrell. What was he doing here? Keeping an arm over his eyes, Ward said, "Then where the hell are my pants?"

Half an hour later he was up, walking the house in his combat trousers with a heavy setting of bandages about his waist. He passed some of the guard posts, nodded approvingly to the men on station. Jones hurried by, chattering excitedly about how he'd just seen a live chicken in the distance. He smiled when he saw the corporal, but carried on. Ward walked the house alone, and without the help of anyone- he found, soon enough, that all he needed was the will to do it. That summed up all he'd ever needed to do anything. Passing one room, he saw Selena working at a desk on a sewing machine, with Jim and Hannah sitting nearby, watching her. "Good to see you're up again." Selena said, looking surprisingly friendly. "Not much fun getting shot."

Shaking his head to clear that haze still clinging to his mind, Ward muttered, "Yeah."

He looked at the quietly chattering sewing machine, and the pile of cut cloth Selena had beside her. "What's all that?"

"We're gonna call for help." Hannah answered. Ward looked at her, and in her eyes he saw the same fast-learned hardness the other civilians showed. But like Selena, Hannah showed no hostility towards the soldier. "Sergeant Farrell says he saw a plane yesterday. We'll make sure the next one doesn't miss us." Selena said. Ward nodded, not sure of what else to say. He was still too dazed from whatever they'd put in his system- he now noticed the needle marks on his arm. Then he saw where they'd gotten the cloth. "Bloody hell, not the curtains!" he said, indignant in spite of himself. The civilians- and the soldiers who heard- laughed. Selena shrugged. "We had to get the material to make the letters with somewhere."

Ward turned to leave. It had occurred to him that while a Royal Marine was expected to be in peak physical condition, parading about with only his combat trousers might not be proper. Jim spoke as the junior NCO reached the door; it was possibly the very first time either of them had spoken directly.

"Thank you. For what you did."

Ward turned, surprised. "What?"

"Look, I know who are, and I know who I am. Your officer would've killed us if you hadn't stopped him."

Faintly annoyed, Ward shook his head. "You haven't the _slightest_ idea who I am. And I didn't do anything. You'd have done the same."

"I'm not a Marine."

"You're a _man_. Aren't you?"

Jim seemed to be getting frustrated- this corporal, even just woken up, was proving difficult. "Look, I mean thank you."

Ward shook his head again. "There's no need."

At this they all looked puzzled. Even Selena. "But, look, when somebody does something like that… shouldn't you thank them?" Jim said, now thoroughly confused.

Ward considered. "You should. But I don't need it. I'm not in this for any of that."

As he finally began to head out the door, Ward added with a smile, "Besides," he said patting the bandage at his waist, "I think this thanks enough."

The next day, at 11:17 AM, a reconnaissance fighter jet of the Irish Air Corps, serving as part of the containment efforts over Britain, made a low sweep over the Manchester countryside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the rumours Command had been hearing. Reports from orbit, scanning through zoomed-in lenses, told of small-arms fire and repeated vehicle movement at a large house in the countryside around Manchester. There was a chance, however unlikely, that someone was still alive. The jet was there to see if anything more could be found out. As the aircraft roared over the deserted landscape, on a roadway that had once known much carnage for its small size, a handful of infected watched from beside an overturned Ford Mondeo. They lay on the ground, too weak to do anything else.

As the plane screamed over the wooded terrain and spotted the rising Union Jack, the pilot turned in for a closer look. He circled the house once and was gone. On the lawn of the house, in a section recently cleared of mines, were the words, "HELLO", spelled out in letters cut from scarlet cloth.

Standing at the base of the flagpole, Corporal Cameron Ward turned to Sergeant Farrell, a grin on his face. "You think they'll have Her Majesty there to greet us when that chopper shows up?"

Farrell shook his head, laughing a little. "Right. I'm sure she'll want to hear all about a few soldiers who never got paid." It was closer to the truth than either of them thought.


	8. Chapter 8- The Ultimate Honour

**Chapter VIII- The Ultimate Honour**

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**A/N: 18 Days Later.**

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From a special BBC report by its newly-established station in Belfast, constructed from staff borrowed from BBC headquarters-in-exile in Canada: "The Queen met personally with each of the Manchester Ten in Belfast today, and confirmed the arrest of Major Henry West on charges of misconduct and dereliction of duty. Reports that an expedition will be mounted to retake the British homeland are still unconfirmed, but the Prime Minister was heard to say, 'It is not a matter of if, but of when. I promise the British people the day is coming when we will have reclaimed what is ours. The return of so many good men and women to our fold, from a place where we'd thought all had been lost, can only be a sign of better things to come.' Further, during the proceedings at the Royal residence in Belfast, the Queen elected to personally present Sergeant William Farrell of the Parachute Regiment and Corporal Cameron Ward of the Royal Marines, 45 Commando, with a special token of thanks, 'on behalf of the Crown, the Commonwealth nations, and all the British people.'"

Cameron Ward found he could hardly breathe. His black dress uniform closed up at the neck; he felt like he'd been fitted for one much too small, though he knew this to be untrue. His collar seemed intent on strangling him, but it wasn't the collar at all. It was this- all of this- that was doing it.

A quick glance off to Cameron's right showed Sergeant Farrell, usually one of the most calm men in his regiment, looking unusually apprehensive. He seemed to visibly share the Bootneck corporal's fear of making a fool of himself with one wrong twitch. Cameron understood; this was far from an ordinary occasion, even for an awards ceremony.

It wasn't often you got to meet the Queen.

And far less often still that you got something like she had in her hand now, preparing to pin it on Ward's dress uniform. It had a rectangular, crimson ribbon, and beneath it a dark bronze cross bearing a lion at its centre. Cameron would always remember how it looked as the Queen pinned it on. The medal's bronze cross, dull at first glance when one looked at other British honours, shone with a subtle brilliance. It was as if it could have outshone the sun, had it wanted to, but chose otherwise because it had nothing to prove.

"You're very special, young man," she said, pinning the medal in place on the left; it joined a mere handful of others. "It's been a long time since I've had cause to present one of these." She considered, then added in a voice that was nothing but solemn, "I've never before had such cause to award one as this."

Cameron could hardly talk; his throat seemed to have seized up, and his eyes were far from dry as he tried to speak. It was just amazing, all of it. To be thanked by the Queen _herself_… no greater honour existed. None at all.

Finally, Cameron started to say, "Your Majesty. I…" then faltered, his voice breaking down again. His eyes brimmed with tears. For a moment, Ward feared he might cry and make a fool of himself before everyone watching the BBC that day. More than just Britons were interested in the young soldier; many eyes were on Britain and not all were friendly ones. Some had rejoiced in the fall of the United Kingdom, and seeing this soldier giving the scattered and dispirited British hope again was not a good thing. Still others merely sat and watched on the sidelines. Some nations, both old friends and enemies of Britain, were watching. Waiting. Thinking of what position they should take, should the UK rise again… a possibility that looked much more real with the emergence of the Manchester Ten. Many eyes were on Cameron Ward that day, and distantly he wondered if he'd ever be allowed to go back to just being a normal person again. It didn't look likely to happen anytime soon.

Perhaps among the many eyes watching the BBC broadcast from Belfast were Cameron's parents. They were out there still, somewhere. He hoped. Every effort was being made to find them. Everyone wanted to know where this suddenly-famous young Marine's courage had come from, who had raised him to grow up and be a great soldier.

Cameron couldn't quite understand what the fuss was about. Britain was a nation at death's door; she had more dead, heroes and not, than any kind living. A living hero, in times so dark and grim they made World War II look like happy days, was rare. _Very_ rare. Cameron understood the Crown needed its living heroes, what few it had, very badly. But he still didn't get why it was _him_ they'd picked. He'd done it all to keep his family safe. To keep his friends' family safe. It was just what you did. If the nation called, what other choice was there? Couldn't any of them _see_ that?

But the Queen seemed to see all that- always known for being an intelligent and insightful woman, she looked like she understood. It was as if she'd read his very thoughts. She said quietly, "There's no shame, young man. The highest of distinctions is service to others."

Cameron would remember those words for the rest of his life.

They helped often- especially when the nightmares came. And come they did- to a man, all who survived the outbreak would suffer with memory of it for years. Many soldiers who survived committed suicide, unable to deal with it, and dozens of others were deemed unsuitable for return to active duty. Cameron Ward would be one of the rare few who simply refused to be treated, and battled his way through both personal and official attempts to dissuade him and return to regular service. The officials didn't want to lose their poster boy, and the personals didn't want to lose their friend. But Cameron was adamant. He would not be dissuaded, and returned to service as a Royal Marine. He would ignore his rising status as a legend as best he could and ask for no special treatment. He would deal with the nightmares on his own.

Later, when he finally had time to return to his quarters- after he'd finally shaken off the last of an endless parade of reporters and dignitaries wanting to both thank and interrogate him- Cameron took off his dress uniform and carefully lay it out on the couch across the room. He smoothed every crease with care, and when his hands touched the medal, it was with love. Not for the piece of crimson ribbon and bronze metal, but for the people who'd taught him how to earn it. Cameron's mind drifted back to the citation the Queen had read earlier that day, recalling the kinds of words it had used describing Britain's two latest men to receive the Victoria Cross.

"Valour and gallantry, against overwhelming enemy force… repeatedly volunteered to return to action with the enemy, despite knowing they had a chance to be evacuated… distinguished themselves through repeated displays of the most conspicuous courage… these actions, performed with extreme daring beyond that normally expected of a British soldier in the presence of the enemy, are rewarded with the presentation of the Victoria Cross, on behalf of a grateful nation."

Sergeant Farrell was a good man and a tremendously courageous soldier; Cameron had no difficulty understanding why _his_ name had been in that citation. But those words, those tremendous words of honour and thanks, had been about _him_, too. Cameron Ward. He could still scarcely believe that.

The VC citation had made it sound like he was some fearless warrior, able to kill infected merely by looking at them. All Cameron could remember was that he'd been scared out of his mind the whole time. He'd felt ready to bolt in terror at any moment, so tense with fear he'd surely go mad if he gave in to it for even an instant. But discipline had held him in place, a desire to uphold the family's honour… and, Cameron supposed, there'd also been a feeling that, if he was indeed a dead man anyway, he might as well refuse to take it lying down. Surely there had to be something wrong with the system, if that was what was what the Crown gave its highest medals for. Weren't heroes supposed to be truly fearless, men who embodied everything Britain and the Crown stood for? The Queen, surely, must have seen enough of that in himself and Sergeant Farrell to honour them so. But it still confused him. It just didn't make any sense.

Cameron Ward lay down on his bed and went to sleep, dropping off into it quickly and easily, something he hadn't been able to do for a long time. It was a sleep brought on by exhaustion; he hadn't slept more than five hours at a time in more than 28 hellish, forty-eight-hour days.

Once in a while he would start, sitting up and trying hard to remember where he was. Each time he'd have to remind himself he was safe, for now. But the British homeland needed to be taken back, and good, solid men would be needed at the front when that day came. To lead the effort, to show all who'd follow the way. And to make certain that the infection never showed its hideous face anywhere in Britain again.

If it did return- even now Cameron refused to discount that possibility, regardless of what so many around him were beginning to think- men like him would be needed to stop it, and quickly. Cameron knew he'd have to be ready, to be up to any task that came to him. But retaking Britain would come later. For now, he would rest in Northern Ireland, and that was enough.

Cameron Ward, Lieutenant of the Royal Marines, slept soundly after a time. Across the room, a bronze cross, hanging from a crimson ribbon on the black dress uniform, gleamed dully in the moonlight. On one side was a lion, holding the English crown, and a scroll bearing two words- two words that summed up the best in every British soldier, two words that stated the reason every one of those unique medals had ever been given. On its back, engraved, was the date Cameron Ward had earned it.

Above that was his name.


End file.
